Chapter 53
53
SAINT-CHAMBéRY
Three days later
‘Sit down, Delphine,’ Erin ordered.
‘ Mon Dieu ! You talk to me like you are in charge!’
‘I am the Queen of the Brouette !’
‘An honour bestowed by me and the rest of the Saint-Chambéry committee.’
‘Which is you.’
‘And Gerard. And Madame Voisin.’
‘Who do as you tell them.’
Delphine gave a sigh of acceptance and dropped to the chair in the guest room, passing the hot hair tongs over to Orla.
‘I don’t know if I should have curls,’ Erin said, surveying herself in the mirror and swishing the crinoline skirt of the Saint-Chambéry gown from times long ago like it was Prada and she was about to go on a runway. Orla was actually terrified, given her sister’s penchant for spilling food and drink or getting items of clothing stuck in places they shouldn’t be. Delphine had told a very long and complex tale about how the dress had come into existence and how many versions there had been. This particular one sounded like it was at least a hundred years old.
‘What?’ Delphine exclaimed. ‘But we have spent almost an hour looking at different styles and deciding the curls.’
‘But the Queen of the Brouette has to be perfect.’
OK, now perhaps Erin was taking this role a bit too far. Orla checked her watch. There was only forty-five minutes until the parade started and there was still quite a bit to do. But she couldn’t make Delphine start to panic. Delphine had not liked giving up the tiniest bit of responsibility for the final preparations for the festival but Jacques really hadn’t given her any choice. Perhaps it was against her initial wishes but sometimes people who had always led didn’t know how to do anything differently and needed to realise that they didn’t always have to be strong alone.
‘Ah!’ Delphine announced, looking ready to spring out of her chair again. ‘There is only forty-five minutes until the start of the parade!’
‘It’s fine, Delphine,’ Orla said, hopefully making her voice sound the very essence of calming and meditative. ‘Jacques and Gerard will have it covered and Tommy and Burim are in charge of coffee to make sure the brass band don’t get chilblains.’
‘Madame Voisin will eat some of my cookies,’ Delphine said, folding her arms across her chest.
‘And, we agreed,’ Orla said. ‘That you have to let the small stuff go. Because people do what people do and if even 50 per cent of their intentions are good then that’s OK.’
‘I am agreeing to too much,’ Delphine answered, sounding salty.
Orla wasn’t sure that ‘agreeing’ was actually the right term but she had reluctantly listened when Orla and Jacques had spoken to her about her illness. It was as if the birth of that reindeer had triggered something inside Orla and a whole new perspective on the world had been unlocked. Things didn’t have to tread a certain pre-determined path. She didn’t have to react to things in the same way she always had. A new story could be written. In that way, her and Delphine were quite similar. Delphine couldn’t see past the weeks and months she might be battling to what could be a brighter future, she could only see the here and now and the changes being to her detriment – her ultimate detriment in a worst-case scenario. But Delphine had agreed to let Jacques come with her to see the consultant in Grenoble and Orla had already devised a diet full of natural ingredients that were meant to promote well-being and encourage the body to repair itself.
‘Hello!’ Erin exclaimed. ‘The Queen of the Brouette here! With her hair basically like ringlets! It’s not a vibe!’
‘Because we have not finished,’ Delphine said, standing up again. ‘They need to be eased into position.’
‘Well, if I don’t look good, I can’t see me being eased into any kind of position with Burim.’
‘O-K!’ Orla jumped in before Delphine could say anything to that comment. ‘Why don’t we loosen the curls a little and see how we feel about it then.’
‘Give me the tongs,’ Delphine insisted.
Orla held them captive. ‘Did you drink your plum and pumpkin smoothie this morning?’
‘I did.’
Orla wasn’t convinced and made an expression that suggested as much.
‘I did,’ Delphine insisted forcefully.
‘Waiting for the truth here,’ Orla continued.
‘I did… except it was a bit fade . So I added some sugar.’
‘Delphine! Natural! Honey if you had to!’
‘What’s “ fade ”?’ Erin asked.
‘It means tasteless,’ Delphine explained. ‘Yuck.’
‘I think “yuck” is an international word. Burim says it too.’
And Burim was still here. Now with the knowledge of his parents thankfully. Although he was an adult, flying solo to another country without telling the people you live with and care about was nothing if not discourteous and Orla had been unhappy about the situation until Burim had put it right. But what happened with him when she and Erin flew back to the UK tomorrow she still didn’t know. She had to admit the way he cared and showed affection for her sister was nothing short of princess treatment, but was this all a short-lived exciting adventure for him? She took a breath and handed Delphine the tongs. That was the old Orla thinking. Did it matter if it was short-lived? Nothing was guaranteed after all. Perhaps you just had to exist in the moment. Besides, she didn’t really know what the future held for her and Jacques.
Suddenly her phone began to ring and she took it from the pocket of her jeans and rapidly moved to the other side of the room as Erin and Delphine began verbally sparring about the hairstyle again.
‘Hello, Frances.’
‘OK, Orla, I’m confused. I have this article you’ve sent me and apart from one paragraph about the reindeer there’s nothing that says “festive”, “Baby Jesus”, “heart-warming” or “viral”.’
Orla took a breath and stood next to the window covered in black sheeting. ‘Do you like it?’
‘No, I don’t like it! For all the reasons I just stated!’
‘But have you actually read it?’ Orla asked, hand going to the sheet as she remembered furiously writing the words that were pouring from her heart.
‘I skimmed it. It’s the festive season. We’re all trying to do three people’s jobs because all the crazy people who didn’t take all their annual leave in summer are taking their annual leave now! And you’re in France, writing stuff that doesn’t hit my remit and I’m starting to wonder what the fuck happened to you there.’
Orla smiled. She kind of knew the reaction she was going to get from Frances about the story she had gone for. Much more about the small community of Saint-Chambéry and finding yourself than it was about the miracle birth. But it hadn’t really mattered what Frances’s opinion was, she’d had to write it. She’d felt compelled to write it. And it was the first time in a long long time that she had experienced that feeling.
‘Did you get my other email?’ Orla asked her.
‘What? No? I don’t know,’ Frances said. ‘Did you not hear the part where I said we are all doing the jobs of three people?’
‘I think you should read the other email,’ Orla said.
‘Ugh, Orla, I don’t have time for this! You’re just going to have to tell me.’
‘Well, I?—’
‘Because this piece needs a complete re-write by tonight and I want better photos! I mean, what the fuck is this ugly wooden wheelbarrow all about?’
Now Orla was overcome with a feeling of defensiveness. Yes, she might have thought the brouette was weird when she’d first arrived here, but it meant so much to the people who lived here. It was part of the history and, yes, it may not be a beautiful golden statue, but it was just as important and its humble roots actually made it more so.
‘Dear Frances,’ Orla began. ‘Please take this email as my resignation from my position with Travel in Mind magazine. Although I have enjoyed my time with the company it’s time for me to have a fresh beginning.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone line until:
‘Are you joking? Has Alan put you up to this? Because yesterday he tried to prank me that the plant Moira has on her desk and waters every day is fake.’
‘I’m serious,’ Orla said. ‘In fact, I’ve never been more serious.’ She ran her fingers down the fabric over where the window should be.
‘Is this about money?’ Frances asked. ‘What am I saying? Of course it’s about money! It’s always about money! Well, obviously I can’t sign off on the intricacies of it but I am positive we can work around a… 10 per cent increase?’
‘It’s not about the money.’
‘Twenty per cent!’
‘Frances, you’re not listening to me.’
‘Is this Time magazine? Did they manage to poach you in the end? I thought I’d put paid to that the last time they came sniffing around but?—’
‘What?’ Orla exclaimed. Had she heard right? Had her publication of dreams tried to headhunt her somehow? And Frances had intervened?!
‘I didn’t think they were serious at first but, well, I guess they were… and now this! So, when are you heading to New York?’
As quickly as the shock of this news hit, it dissipated just as fast.
‘I don’t have another job,’ Orla answered.
‘What? Are you insane?’
‘No,’ Orla said. ‘I’m actually thinking more clearly than ever before.’
And with that said, she looked a little harder at the black sheet in front of her, blowing a bit with the breeze. I wonder… She pulled it back and there was the reveal. A perfectly intact window, a small fan moving left and right and creating the impression of outside air.
‘Delphine!’ Orla said. ‘You were never having your window replaced!’
‘Orla? Have you actually gone mad? Who is Delphine?’ Frances called down the phone.